He had to get out of there before he lost control. Still breathing hard,
he grabbed his pants, yanked them on and went for the door. He fell
against the wall outside his private room and ran his hands over his
face in an attempt to steady his heart rate and gather his thoughts.
They swirled in his head, splintered off in a hundred different
directions and fucked with his mind.

Damn it, she was getting to him.

He understood the agreement they had. Hell, he’d set a couple of the
rules himself. So why, then, did he want to toss every fucking word of
it to the curb?

The need to tell her how beautiful she was, the desire to call out her
name every time he came inside her, neared the point of torture. Why the
hell did he agree to silence? If he could speak it’d be so different.
Their time together wouldn’t have become the sweet agony it was turning
out to be.